


Well Put

by cincoflex



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AND BEYONCE, Gen, might be a pie here, teamwork I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mascots and spins. That's all you need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of love and not intended for profit off of the webcomic _Check Please!_ by the talented Ngozi Ukazu.

The note arrived the old-fashioned way: via the mail. Shitty brought it in along with the real-estate ads and the weekly grocery flyers (which were carefully set aside for Bitty, who generally clipped coupons like a fiend.)

Shitty eyed the envelope suspiciously, tore it open and scanned the note inside, scowling as he did so.

“There is no fucking _way_ this coyly phrased “request” isn’t an open invitation to personal injury lawsuits, defamation of character charges, and a _lifetime_ of ridicule,” Shitty announced, waving his beer. “Seriously? How can the coaches even think this ukase is permissible?”

“I thought it was an opportunity,” Chowder murmured, confused. “What’s a ukase?”

“It’s one of those things you play in Hawaii,” Dex volunteered, looking over Shitty’s shoulder at the note.

“No, that’s a uvula,” Nursey muttered.

Shitty scowled. “You guys ARE in college, right?”

Confused and slightly suspicious they nodded. Shitty relented a bit, and looked around at them. “Okay then. A ukase is an order; a command. The thing you play in Hawaii is a ukulele, and a uvula is that little weirdo punching bag thingie in the back of your throat. Got it?”

Dex and Nursey looked askance; Chowder immediately stuck a finger in his mouth and grinned. “I touched mine!”

“Good for you. Er, not too much, dude, or you’ll puke,” Shitty pointed out kindly. “Getting back to this, though—it’s bad karma, man. Wellie should stay on the sidelines.”

“Wellies? Like in all of _us_?” Chowder asked, still in his general mode of confusion.

“Like in our beautiful mascot, Wellie the Well of Knowledge,” Ransom offered, slouching his way into the living room and dropping his backpack by the door. He rolled his eyes. “I _heard_ about the promotional video the athletic department wants us to make—so which one of _you_ sorry-asses is going to suit up and skate around Faber in a velour well costume?”

“Not it!”

“Not it!”

“Shit _no_!” came the chorus of replies. The team backed away from Shitty as if he had the plague, or in Chowder’s case, cooties. 

Shitty carried the note to the bulletin board and pinned it there with more force than necessary. “ _Fine_. Looks like a decision for our captaine estimé to make.”

*** *** *** 

Naturally a few hours later, Bitty caught sight of the note, read it, and went into squees of joy. “Yes! Gawd! Has anyone else called this yet? Dibs! Dibs!”

“Dibs on what?” Jack wanted to know. He ambled over to where Bitty was hugging himself, bouncing up and down like a happy yo-yo. “Is there a bake-off?”

“No, not this time. It’s this! The chance to be Wellie!” Bitty beamed up at him. “I know it’s silly and I’ll make a fool of myself but honestly that’s sort of what college is all about and ever since I saw Disney on Ice I’ve wanted to be a skating _character_! Sure I dreamed about being Aladdin or maybe Elsa but good golly I can carry the glory and honor of being our well, I just _know_ I can!”

Jack read the note and frowned. “Let me get this straight—you _want_ to be . . . a well.”

“Not just ANY well, Jack Laurent Zimmermann! OUR well! Wellie, the beautiful embodiment of our glorious motto!” Bitty replied indignantly. “The symbol of Samwell University!”

“The mascot. On ice,” Jack sighed. “Bittle, I hate to tell you this, but the costume will be too big for you.”

“No it won’t!”

Of course it was. 

The monstrosity, which resembled a circular pop-up tent in elephant gray, dragged on the ground around Bitty’s sneakers, picking up debris from the front yard. Deep within it, Bitty attempted to maneuver, peering out through the dark mesh viewhole. “Well shoot!”

“Well _shit_ is more like it,” Shitty manfully refrained from laughing as he squatted to look back at his team mate inside. “Hate to say it Bitty, but you look like a moldy cake, man.”

“Like someone left the cake out in the rain,” Jack offered, earning strange stares from the rest of the hockey team. Ransom shook his head sadly at this, and Holster sighed, rapping his knuckles against the cloth-covered bucket that dangled from the crossbar of the costume.

“Golden oldies . . . it’s fucking _tragic_ what we have to put up with around here.”

“Good thing hockey’s his day job,” Ransom commiserated.

“If we could _please_ get back to the important things!” Bitty called out from the bottom of the velour well. “We’ll have to pin the hem up, that’s all. I wish I had Moomaw’s old Singer with me.”

“I think _Jack_ could qualify as a Moomaw Singer,” Ransom pointed out. 

This was greeted with snickers from the team, a sour look from Jack and a pointed ‘ah-HEM’ from inside the well. “If y’all are _done_ being absolutely no help at all . . .” Bitty crawled out from under the frame of the costume, wiping his hands as he stood again.

“Bring it up about three inches I’d guess . . . it’s a shame it’s so . . .”

“Drab? Unremarkable? Lacking in joi de vivre?” Lardo offered as she strolled over. “She’s meant to be a stone well, Bitty—the fountain of knowledge here at Samwell.” Moving closer, Lardo reached to touch one of the large cartoonish eyes on the front of the costume. “A well complete with Maybelline eyelashes apparently.”

“I always thought that she was a little . . .” Chowder began.

“Creepy?” Dex offered.

“Weird?” Nursey supplied.

“Sexy,” Chowder finished, cocking his head. “You know, like when Bugs Bunny dresses up as a woman. I know it’s supposed to be funny but he always looks pretty dang hot, even if it’s just a joke.”

Shitty reached out a hand to the frog’s shoulder, gripping it lightly. “I’m not sure whether to commend your open-mindedness or worry about your sex life, bro.”

The heat of Chowder’s blush could have become a fire hazard if Bitty hadn’t started hopping a little, distracting everyone.

“She needs . . . a _makeover_!” he announced, beaming. 

Few proclamations in life could stun the entire Samwell Men’s Hockey team into silence. This was one of them. To a man they turned their disbelieving gazes to Bitty, who held his chin high.

“Bro . . . seriously?” Shitty finally ventured. “You’re talking about re-vamping an institution? Putting a modern face on a WASP standard and sticking it to The Man by forcing them to acknowledge the fluid nature of gender for mascots?” Flinging himself at his team mate, Shitty burst out laughing. “Count me the fuck IN on that action!”

Lardo grinned. “Ditto! Damn, it’s a good thing I’ve got a gift card to the fabric store. Linking her arm with Bitty she added, “Come on; let’s see if we can come up with a _Look._ ”

“Something between Sasha Fierce and Lady Gaga,” Bitty offered, eyes bright. “For starters!” 

Bitty, Lardo and Shitty headed into the Haus, leaving the others behind, none of whom seemed to want to look at each other.

They all looked at the gray shape sitting on the lawn instead.

“This is gonna be bad,” Ransom predicted. “Like, trainwreck bad.”

“Maybe I can stop them,” Jack offered, grimacing. 

“Stop Bitty when he’s made up his mind?” Holster asked skeptically. “Good luck with _that_ , captain.”

Ransom gave a sigh. “At least none of _us_ are wearing it, right?”


	2. Chapter 2

The art project, dubbed Pimp My ‘Scot, took shape in the Haus living room, forcing the team to participate as they passed by. The coffee table now held sketches, swatches of cloth, and a collection of bizarre items ranging from crimson glitter and velvet cords to googly eyes the size of dinner plates. And rising from the floor in her majesty, Wellie sat, waiting patiently.

After a while, starting with Chowder, they . . . _patted_ her whenever they walked by. Sometimes it was just a careless poke to her swinging bucket, occasionally it was a tap along her rim, but within two days the entire team had accepted that the gray form in the living room was not only a part of them, but was also somehow worth acknowledging.

Bit by bit, she changed. By evening, strokes of silver sparkle paint highlighted the textured bricks that formed her basic torso, giving Wellie more of the three-dimensional appearance. The crossbars, which had been ragged velour-covered PVC pipes were replaced with a shiny black vinyl trellis frame interwoven with vines and dangling grape clusters liberally frosted in exotic shades usually only found in diva lipsticks.

The old bucket was now covered in a mosaic of tiny star-shaped mirror pieces, turning it into a virtual disco-ball as it dangled temptingly over the center of Wellie’s head.

But the biggest change was to her face. Wellie’s previous expression had been limited—two large and perpetually surprised eyes topped with flimsy plastic eyelashes, and a black velvet grin under them. It was a cartoonish face, not meant to be taken seriously. A mascot’s face.

No more.

Now a pair of bright green lamé eyes complete with black wing eyeliner and a hint of light gray sparkle eye shadow brought a new soul to Samwell’s mascot. Thick lashes framed them, and her mouth smiled with padded red velour lips, hints of dimples at the corners.

Shitty whistled. “Sexist response, I know, but this is one _seriously_ babe of a well. I had no fucking idea a water source could be so attractive.”

“She’s drawing you in,” Lardo snickered. “Urging you to drink deep, dude.”

“Okay, that symbolism is making me uncomfortable for several reasons,” Shitty replied, but he smiled.

Bitty gave a pleased sigh and took several pictures with his phone. “She’s a special lady and I for one think it’s time she knew how important she is.”

“Oh she’s not the same old Wellie, that’s for sure, eh,” Jack agreed, studying her. “Although I think it’s still going to be a challenge to skate in her, Bitty. How are you going to keep your balance? Or _see_ , for that matter?”

“We widened the mesh just under the rim,” Bitty was quick to point out, “And added some anchoring straps to the top and bottom hoops that I can velcro to my shoulders and waist. I do not intend to go particularly fast anyway. Wellie is more of a spinner, not a sprinter.”

“You’re still going to need a spotter,” Jack pointed out. “Maybe two.”

“I’m _not_ going to fall!” Bitty protested.

“No,” Jack agreed, “Because you’re going to have escorts.”

“Wells do NOT need escorts!”

Jack gave Bitty his _‘I am the team captain and I can out-wait your tantrum’_ look.

Bitty crossed his arms and gave his _‘I can cut you off from any future **pies** , Jack Zimmermann’_ look.

“I’ll do it,” Chowder volunteered. “Can I have a costume too?”

Distracted, both Bitty and Jack looked at their Frog goalie, who blushed.

“I could be a shark. Maybe a _left_ shark!”

Bitty beamed.

*** *** ***

Bringing the Diva to Faber was simple; testing her out was not. Bitty and Lardo both crawled under the well and fussed there for a while as Jack and Shitty skated aimlessly, waiting. In the early daylight streaming from the upper windows, Wellie looked like a Sid and Marty Krofft creation wearing Fredrick’s of Hollywood. 

Finally, Lardo slipped back out, gave a thumbs-up, and stumbled her way to the edge of the rink while Bitty glided forward regally. Jack circled around, coming up on Bitty’s right. “Doing okay in there?”

“I’m _fine_ , Jack,” came the slightly huffy reply. “It’s a little big but it’s not heavy.”

They glided forward, picking up speed, and Jack noted how the hem of the costume swayed as they did.

“Checking out Wellie’s _legs_ , Zimmermann?” Shitty demanded, cutting a spray of ice as he swirled around them and came up on Bitty’s left flank. “And here I thought you were an _ass_ man!”

“There’s no ass on a well,” Jack pointed out, not exactly denying Shitty’s accusation.

“There’s no ass on Bitty either,” Lardo called cheerfully from the sidelines, making both men snort.

Between them Wellie growled. “I HEARD that, Lardo!”

“Just skate!” she ordered.

The three of them got nearly a quarter of the way before Bitty went down, the costume wobbling like Jell-O around him. He flailed, rolled, and lay there for a moment, wind knocked out of him. Jack and Shitty circled, not sure how to help him up again until Jack finally reached under the hem, felt around and grabbed an arm.

“Upsy-daisy,” he called, “you okay, Bittle?”

“Never mind me, how’s my _face_?” Bitty demanded breathlessly.

“Dude, you kissed the ice big-time,” Shitty pointed out. “What happened?”

“Hooked my own skate,” Bitty admitted. “It’s darker in here than I thought. How do I look?”

Shitty circled him, considering the question. “Like a drag queen crossed with a huge hockey puck,” he admitted. “I think you lost some glass off the bucket.”

Jack fetched the pieces and pocketed them. “All right, I think my point about escorts is made?”

In response, Bitty pushed off, gliding away quickly, and pulled into a quick spin. For a figure skater, this was a traditional, fairly easy maneuver of some simplicity.

For a mascot wearing a glittering, flying two-foot mace, it became an instant disaster.

Jack ducked, but Shitty was not so quick and took a disco-bash to the face, which sent _him_ into a spin complete with gyrating arms and a spectacular spray of blood from his nose. 

The strike also stopped Bitty’s momentum and he went down again, this time twirling across the ice in the opposite direction from his team mates.

For a moment Jack wasn’t sure who to help first; he looked to Lardo who had her phone out, and it took him a second to realize she wasn’t calling 911.

No, she’d been filming the whole incident.

In the meantime, Bitty managed to get up, wobbling his way towards where Shitty was trying to staunch his nose. “Oh Shitty I am so SO sorry!”

“You fucking _face_ -checked me, Bits! That was sort of s’awesome right there!” came the cheerful reply. “Although to be fair I’m gonna need pie to recover. Anything in the mixed berry would definitely promote healing.”

“Of course! The minute we get back!”

Jack dropped his hands on his hips, exasperated. “This outfit is dangerous, Bittle!”

“Oh it needs hand-straps, that’s all,” Bitty replied. “On the inside. Once I have a firm grip on them, I could probably even jump in it.” He skated off towards Lardo, ignoring Jack the way only a completely confident parade float could.

Jack growled. Next to him, blood-spattered and grinning, Shitty snickered. “I didn’t even know he could sashay on skates.”

“Yeah well he’s becoming a diva,” Jack predicted. 

“You mean a diva well,” Shitty corrected. 

They skated over just as Lardo grimaced, holding out her phone. “Um, we might be in a lit-tle bit of trouble, guys.”

“What, did The Swallow get a shot of my chin-balling?” Shitty looked around the rink suspiciously.

“Worse. The athletic department and the board of trustees want to see us,” Lardo told them glumly. “Immediately.”


	3. Chapter 3

The solidarity of Samwell’s Men’s Hockey Team was such that they all insisted on going. Jack wasn’t surprised, but it did make for a crowd as they filed into the board room. Bitty walked in first. Dex, Nursey, and Chowder carried the mascot costume in, looking more like pall bearers at a puppet funeral as the rest of the team followed behind, uncharacteristically quiet for once. 

Lardo stood by Bitty, chin high, and next to her, Shitty held a folder of papers, his expression sharp despite the Band-Aid over his nose. 

Of the four people around the head of the conference table, Jack only recognized Gideon O’Brien, president of Samwell College; the other, older men he didn’t know but suspected were the upper echelon of administration. They watched the team enter and quietly deposit Wellie on the table at the far end of the room. In the overhead light she sagged a little, still glittering a bit.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” one man told them, “and Miss.”

Awkwardly everyone shuffled to a seat, settling in quietly and trying not to look at Wellie. Jack made it a point to sit as close as he could to the board, working to catch their eyes.

“All right, I’m President O’Brien, and sure we’d all like to resolve matters as quickly as possible. To that end I’m charged by the board to lay out the issue that has brought you all here. It’s come to our attention that certain members of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team have defaced the college mascot—“

He didn’t get any further; both Shitty and Bitty broke in.

“Objection!”

“No sir, _not_ defaced!”

“This isn’t a court of law, Mister Knight,” President O’Brien pointed out dryly, “And you will get your opportunity to speak, Mister Bittle. I’m merely laying out the facts of this situation as the board currently understands them. If I may proceed? Good. Where was I?”

“Defacing the mascot,” one of the other men piped up brightly. He was a spry little man with a wispy goatee and a pair of granny glasses at the end of his pointed nose. “Although ‘deface’ is legally incorrect in this case, Gid. From what I can see, Wellie there hasn’t been destroyed, lost value or been made unrecognizable through malicious intent. Hell, she looks pretty damned _cute_ from where _I’m_ sitting!”

“If I can PLEASE just get through the initial point of contention, Miles!” President O’Brien muttered in a pained tone.

“Fine, fine, go right ahead,” the man named Miles agreed. “Just making a legal technicality.”

Jack began to feel a tiny sense of hope. He shot a look at Shitty, who clearly felt it too. They tried not to grin at each other as President O’Brien continued.

“--DEFACED the Samwell University mascot known as ‘Wellie’ for reasons unknown,” he drawled out. “Given the history of said mascot against the history of said hockey team, this action merits an investigation. Mister Zimmermann?”

“Sir?” Jack looked up.

“As captain of the hockey team, do you have an explanation or a spokesperson willing to provide an explanation?”

“Yes sir,” Jack replied. He looked to Shitty, who gave a nod. “Mister Sh-Knight.”

“Wait! I think it’s only fair that I—” Bitty broke in, but Shitty opened his folder and cleared his throat.

“Mr. President, gentlemen of the Samwell University board of trustees, I’ve been authorized to speak on this matter. Do any of you know when Wellie was first introduced as our mascot?”

The men looked at each other, puzzled. All except the one named Miles. “Nineteen forty-four,” he replied forthrightly. “Introduced at the Samwell-Dartmouth football game that year. Ugliest looking costume ever.”

“Er, correct,” Shitty nodded, surprised, “So that makes Wellie here over seventy years old. While tradition has its place in education, Samwell University prides itself in adapting and changing to reflect the virtues of its student body. To that end, my colleagues and I felt that our mascot no longer represented the Samwell student of today. We are no longer bound to the conventional mores of nearly a century ago; we have grown in leaps and bounds. Samwell has one of the best progressive records in terms of LGBT support, community service, humanitarian causes and multicultural studies. We have become much more than our alumni of nineteen forty-four could have ever dreamed; therefore, how could we permit our mascot to stay rooted seventy years in the past?”

There was a delicate pause. President O’Brien looked around the table, and then back to the lumpy costume at the end of it. “Very moving, Mr. Knight. So, gentlemen-- because of your great love for Samwell University, you decided to tart up our well.”

“She’s not a tart!” Bitty burst out, rising to his feet. This didn’t make much difference in height, but he leaned on the table, speaking earnestly. “Our motto here is ‘penitus potes de fonte sapientiae, and we do! _I_ was the one who wanted to give Wellie a makeover. I did it because I felt she deserved to look as special as she makes everyone of us _feel_! Oh I understand that nobody takes a mascot seriously—they’re all just goofy characters out there rilin’ up the crowd and playing around on the sidelines, but everybody sees them, _knows_ who they are, and what they _represent_!”

“And what exactly is your _point_ , son?” Miles asked gently in the pause.

Bitty drew in another breath. “That we might not be the biggest or richest out there, but we take pride in ourselves. We ARE special and we not only deserve respect, we DEMAND it. Wellie has the _right_ to be gorgeous instead of goofy. If she represents the source of our knowledge, what’s wrong with making her as awesome as she deserves to be?”

Jack blinked, aware of a lump in his throat; when Bitty got passionate he had a way of drawing others in, and this moment was certainly no exception. Shitty was sniffling a bit and even Lardo looked damp-eyed.

By contrast, President O’Brien looked a little stunned. “You really do feel this . . . makeover is justified?”

“I do!” Bitty replied, pink-faced. “I really, really _do._ ”

President O’Brien got up and walked around the table towards Wellie. He turned the costume, looking critically at the face for a long moment.

Nobody spoke. Nobody was brave enough to speak.

“Seventy years,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Well _hell_ , I guess everyone’s entitled to a makeover after all this time.” Looking up the length of the table he added, “Gentlemen?”

“Frankly . . . she’s adorable, Gideon. My granddaughter Elise is gonna love her,” one of the men admitted sheepishly.

Miles cracked a grin. “If we go _with_ this . . . makeover, just think of the gift shop revenue, Gid—shirts, plushies, decals . . . ka- _ching_ , buddy!”

The president winced. “That takes a little of the nobility out of it, but you make a financially practical point, Miles.” Turning, he looked at the Samwell Hockey team. “Gentlemen, I think I speak for the board when I say that you’ve made a compelling argument for this . . . upgrade. And because of your integrity in this matter, I consider this issue settled. Miss Duan, Mr. Bittle, if you would stay behind a moment please?”

*** *** ***

_Three Months later_

“So it’s being credited as an independent project for us both,” Bitty finished up for the vblog. “Lardo gets to design all the merchandise which will give her more Art cred, and _I_ get . . . well, a little something more to add to a future resume I guess. I got interviewed by the Daily AND the Swallow, and I _know_ y’all have seen that music video of me out on the ice, shaking my bucket with poor Chowder and Jack trying to keep up with me. That crazy thing’s had over fifty thousand hits---I guess Samwell really WAS ready for Miss Wellie to strut her stuff to the best music on earth!”

“Bitty, ya got mail!” came the call from downstairs.

“Okay, well I’ll be back to crust tips and filling hints next time,” Bitty burbled and shut down the computer. He wandered downstairs to the kitchen, spotting the large manila envelope on the table on top of the grocery flyers. It was addressed to Ms W. Bucket C/O Samwell Men’s Hockey, Samwell Massachusetts, and Bitty didn’t recognize the return address, which was located in Los Angeles.

He got a kitchen knife and neatly sliced the flap, reaching inside.

A photograph slid out, for a long moment all Bitty could do was stare.

And hyperventilate.

_To my Bitty Fan—_ read the inscription of the glossy photograph.  
_You sure put a Rink on it! Well Done!_

_Beyoncé_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! A special shout-out to Amanda and VR for always supporting my writing. Thanks, ladies!


End file.
